


The Chronicler's Apprentice

by cosmogyrals



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Valdemar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyrals/pseuds/cosmogyrals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Doctor Who/Heralds of Valdemar canon fusion/crossover/AU/whatever you prefer to call it. Clara is a somewhat reluctant governess turned Trainee who finds herself taken on by the most unlikely of mentors. Being canon familiar isn't necessary, but it helps; there are no spoilers for the Valdemar books (or Doctor Who).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set loosely sometime between Brightly Burning and the beginning of Roald's reign. I've changed a few names to make them fit better in the Valdemar universe (mainly the Doctor's, since he's tricky enough to deal with as it is). All continuity errors and other mistakes are entirely my fault (it's damn hard to keep track of continuity over thirty-odd books, though).

The only problem with being a governess, Clara reflected, was her charges. She enjoyed teaching, but just once, she would have liked having students who listened, students who cared about what she had to say. Instead, Bernhard, the eldest, and ostensibly the heir to his father's mercantile business, was staring out the window at the cobblestones, head slumped in his hand.

"He's mooning over Alethea," sniffed Crescentia, his sister, younger by two years. While she wasn't yet old enough to be considering potential marriage negotiations, her brother was, and he'd set his cap for the neighbours' eldest daughter. Clara wasn't sure if Alethea was a candidate, but she didn't particularly care, either. Her duty was to ensure the children learned what she had to teach, which was currently the geography of Valdemar. Clara had never ventured outside Haven, but she was familiar enough with the maps from her own learning; she'd once been the daughter of a wealthy merchant herself, but her mother had died, and her father had lost their fortune whilst mad with grief. He had passed away, and Clara found herself scrambling for opportunities soon thereafter. One of her father's friends had extended an offer of employment to teach his children, and it was one she hadn't been able to pass up.

Of course, the problem was that nearly ten years later, she was still teaching the children of well-to-do families, with no prospects of her own. It was intensely frustrating - almost as much as trying to stuff knowledge into Bernhard's head. He had assumed that once he was in charge of the business, there would be plenty of people to do everything for him; all he had to do was enjoy his fortunes. Never mind that his father had built their cloth trading business up from scratch, and still did much of the work himself. He doted on his son, though, and Clara knew better than to say anything about his progress (or lack thereof). 

For a moment, she was tempted to slam the shutters on Bernhard's object of affection, but then he would just sulk the rest of the afternoon, and she still wouldn't get anything out of him. Crescentia didn't care about her studies, either, but she was bright enough to absorb most of what Clara said anyway - a complete waste of knowledge. Clara was in favour of women being educated, obviously, but Crescentia scoffed at everything she had to offer and did her very best to ignore her. It was absolutely maddening when she asked Bernhard a question and Crescentia would mock her brother before giving the correct answer.

"All right." She glanced at the angle of the sun. At least she could go for a walk to clear her thoughts before the servants' dinner was served. "You're done for the day, go flirt or- whatever." She wanted desperately to give up, but she couldn't, not unless she wanted to live on the streets and beg for crusts in the city's slums. Instead, she had to hope that a walk would calm her, help her feel less trapped. She knew it wasn't any worse than it would have been if her father had chosen a suitor for her before his death - at least she didn't have to sleep with a man she didn't love or bear his children - but that didn't make her feel any better about it.

It was a nice enough day that Clara simply had to change into walking shoes before she went out. Bernhard was already outside, leaning against the fence and chatting to Alethea, a pale wisp of a blonde girl who looked like she would blow away in the first stiff wind. The girl was sweet enough, but too much of a shrinking violet, Clara knew from the servants' gossip at the dinners the family hosted. She felt sorry for her; if she did marry Bernhard, his domineering personality would ensure his family's ruin, and there would be nothing she could do. Maybe she would discover hidden depths, though, or a secret talent for clever negotiations; Bernhard was lazy enough that he would even let his wife do the real work for him, just as long as she was still a pretty little showpiece.

Clara headed for a nearby park, walking briskly to discourage conversation from anyone - not that anyone here would have spoken to her. She'd once moved among them at parties and social affairs, but these days, she was little more than a glorified servant, her sober dress attesting to the fact. Oh, she missed being able to wear fancy dresses, being able to shop and plan her outfits. Losing her status didn't bother her, but the loss of her wardrobe hurt keenly. Her dresses were all dull wool or muslin in entirely unexciting colours, no embroidery or trims to make things interesting. She had no accessories, no jewelry, and she had to keep her hair as simple as possible. For someone who had enjoyed all things sartorial, it was difficult to adjust.

The park was kept in common by a number of nearby families, and it served as a gathering spot for their children and the children's chaperones. Even though Clara didn't have her charges with her, she doubted anyone would comment on her presence. There were only a few people there, a pair of girls about Crescentia's age walking together and gossiping, their maids trailing behind them. Not many people wanted to spend time in the park, though it would be crowded enough once spring properly arrived. Clara found a seat on a stone bench, wrapping her arms around her as a breeze blew over her. Perhaps she ought to have brought her cloak with her, she thought as gooseflesh raised on her arms. She had already tucked it back into its chest in a fit of optimism after the first warm day earlier this week.

Her free time was consumed by mundane chores, all of the little things she never would have thought of before, the things servants would have done for her. She always found a bit of time just before bed to read, though; her employers had a splendid library (purchased entirely from a noble family that had been down on its luck), and they allowed her free reign of it. The library, Clara knew perfectly well, was there just for the look of it - it wasn't as if anyone else in the house took advantage of owning so many books, but everyone who was anyone had a library, no matter how small. She missed her father's library - her mother had truly loved books, and she'd taken pride in selecting new volumes to add to it. Clara could remember going along to booksellers' with her mother, running her fingers along the leather spines of books while her mother talked to the owners. Once she could read, she would peruse the volumes herself. The only book she still owned was a book of tales dating back to the Founding of Valdemar that her mother had given her as a child, one that she had owned first. That and her mother's handfasting ring were the only heirlooms she owned.

She ran her thumb over the golden band, lost in her thoughts - so immersed in her own mind that she didn't hear the beat of hooves on the ground, or the commotion the others in the park made. Instead, she only returned to the present when something snorted, a horsey sort of sound, and she looked over at a white muzzle very nearly resting on her shoulder. Clara followed the line of the horse's - Companion's, she mentally corrected herself - head up until she met its eyes, the bluest blue she had ever seen. It felt like she was falling into a pool of sun-warmed water head-first, like she would never surface again - like she never wanted to. _Oh_ , she thought.

_:Oh, indeed,:_ a voice echoed in her head, amused. _:My name is Eirian, and I Choose you.:_

"I'm too old to be a Herald!" she insisted out loud, much to the surprise of the others present. "You know that. Companions only choose children. _And_ I don't like horses. I had a pony when I was a girl, and it kicked me and nearly broke my leg after I gave it an apple." Clara folded her arms over her chest. She had no intention of going with Eirian, no matter how hard he tried. "Also," she added, for good measure, "I look awful in white."

Eirian stared at her, long-lashed eyes blinking slowly. _:Are you quite finished? Because you don't want to be a governess, either. I heard your thoughts all the way up at the Palace. You don't feel like you fit in anywhere, but I promise you that you'll fit in with the Heralds.:_

"And die young."

_:You know, there are old Heralds. Quite a few survive to old age, particularly during peace. Which, might I point out, we have had for some time now. And it's cold out here, and I'd really like to go back to my stable and have a nice warm blanket put on me.:_

"Then you can go back by yourself. I'm not coming."

He let out a gusty sigh. _:I'm not a horse, for the record, and I'm not going to kick you. Probably not even if you deserve it, although I'd be tempted to. But you know how that feels, don't you? With those horrid children you were tutoring. We always need people willing to teach up on the Hill, and the students there are eager to learn. They_ need _to learn, and you have a talent for it. And you wouldn't even be the oldest ever Chosen. We Choose who we need to, and it's not always children.:_

Of course the Companion would know just how to tempt her. Clara had heard all of the tales of the Heralds, everything that made it sound like having a Companion was the most wonderful thing ever - but she also knew the reality, that Heralds were sent out to do dangerous things that only they could accomplish. And while she longed to see the world outside Haven, she wasn't sure putting herself in danger was the best way to achieve that.

_:Did I mention a year and a half riding on circuit before you get your Whites?:_

"Get out of my head!" Clara shouted at Eirian. Clearly hurt, the Companion took a step back, hanging his head and looking like a chastened child. She didn't care; she didn't want a stupid horse poking around in her thoughts and invading her privacy, especially not when he was clearly going to use it against her to try and persuade her to become a Herald.

_:The bond can be broken, you know,:_ a voice whispered in her head. Feminine, this one sounded like the whisper of silk over stone. There was a deep sorrow to it, a sense that it very much wanted Clara and Eirian to be partners, but it would accept it if she chose otherwise. _:The newest bonds are still fragile and lack strength; we encourage the newly Chosen to spend time with their Companions to build the bond, to keep it from breaking. But it can be done, if we separate the two of you. Eirian would Choose again in time. But a Companion's choice is never accidental. If you have been chosen, Valdemar has need of you. If you refuse that, there's no way of telling what might happen, how your choice would affect the web of fate._

_:You are stubborn because you feel it is necessary, because you feel it is the only way to control your life,:_ she continued. 

Clara didn't know who was speaking inside her head, but she felt rather annoyed with all of this. Who was she to go on about fate? Had fate kept her parents from dying, kept her from having to follow the path she did now?

_:Fate is not always kind, Clara. It is impartial; humans impose human characteristics on it as they do whenever they try to make sense of anything that is unknowable. Fate has led you to this point, and now your path diverges. It is up to you to make the choice.:_ As suddenly as it had come, the presence had gone, and Clara was left wholly confused.

"Are you our problem child?" A greying man walked up to her with the assistance of a cane; Clara wasn't sure where he had come from, or how he had managed to arrive so quickly, but the whites immediately gave away his identity.

"I'm not a child," Clara huffed, aware that she was sounding exactly like one.

"You, Eirian, whichever." He waved a hand vaguely. His cane was made from some dark wood, topped with silver, and it looked quite elegant; Clara wondered if he had had a brainstorm, as many older people did, or if it was because of some injury sustained in his duties as a Herald. "I suppose Idris talked to you already? Incredibly nosy creatures; they've got to have their fingers in every pie. Proverbial fingers, that is. More like hooves, and have you ever seen a pie with hoofprints in it? Not exactly edible."

"I don't _want_ to be a Herald."

"Nor did I, when I was Chosen. Do you mind if I sit?" Without waiting for a reply, he sat down next to her on the stone bench, spreading his long legs. He put his cane between them, resting his hands on the head, and his chin on his hands. "I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life - my father was in the Guard, and I didn't want to do that. My older brother was apprenticing in the city courts. And me? I didn't know what trade might suit me. I'd finally decided that I might be a clerk when - poof, one day, Idris turned up. Of course I was annoyed; I'd just figured out what I wanted, and now someone else was trying to decide for me. But it turned out that the reason why I was so unhappy was because I didn't know what it was I'd been missing."

"So, what, I just accept everything and live happily ever after? Go along with everyone else and live in some happy children's tale with a sparkling white horse and follow the rest of the herd blindly?"

"Did I say that?" He arched one formidable grey eyebrow at her. "Never stop questioning things, Clara. Even Heralds - especially Heralds - can't follow orders blindly without thinking about _why_ they're doing it. Always question your place, question whether what you're doing is right or wrong. Question why you're here."

"Or," he added, starting to rise to his feet, "you can just keep teaching stupid brats who don't give a toss about what you're trying to do. You can keep going till you're old and grey, till all the children have blurred together. You don't know what you're doing now, but you're frightened of the unknown. You want to be able to control your destiny, and becoming a Herald is entirely the opposite."

Clara glanced down at her hands for a moment, embarrassed by his apparent ability to put into words exactly what she felt - embarrassed that she felt that way at all. Everyone talked about Companion's Choice, but what about a Herald's choice? There was no choice at all; you just became a Herald. 

Another Companion came from an alley, silver hooves chiming gently against the cobblestones, and knelt in front of the bench. Clara could have sworn that she winked at her with one great blue eye, a shade that was subtly different from Eirian's. The man mounted stiffly, tucking his cane under one arm. "I do hope we meet again, Clara. You're wasted on what you're doing now, and I think you could be a great Herald. But if you don't-" He shrugged casually, as if they were talking about nothing more than whether or not to meet for dinner. "The Heralds will respect your choice."

With that, his Companion trotted off, and the spell that had seemingly settled over the park was broken. The others had fled in the wake of the Herald and his Companion, leaving Clara alone on her bench and Eirian waiting patiently in the street behind her. She knew he was there, even though her back was to him; she could sense his presence. Really, she thought as she turned to look at him, he was certainly a pretty horse; she could appreciate that despite her dislike of equines. He was slender and somewhat shorter than a normal horse, his white coat gleaming in the sun. His silver mane had been brushed and braided, as had his tail. Not a single hair was out of place. He had been decked out in blue and silver barding with bells, and they chimed softly as he took a step toward her.

_:Clara?:_ he said tentatively.

"I still think I'm too old to be a Trainee." She wrinkled her nose; she certainly did not want to be stuck in classes with children the same age as the ones she was currently teaching.

_:If it doesn't matter to me, then it won't matter to the rest of the Collegium. And I'm the one Choosing you, so obviously I don't mind.:_ His mental voice became bossier and more confident as he kept talking in her head. _:I want you to be my Herald, not someone younger.:_

"How _do_ you Choose, anyway?" There were stories about all the most famous Companions and how they'd bonded with their Heralds, but none of them said how they'd chosen, or how they knew.

_:It just...happens.:_ Clara got the distinct impression that if he were able to, he would have shrugged. _:We get an impulse and we turn up at the stables to be rigged out - I wouldn't leave till I looked absolutely perfect for you.:_ He tossed his mane imperiously and the bells chimed again. _:I wanted to put my best hoof forward, as it were.:_

"If you think I'm going to spend all my time braiding your mane, you've got to be joking." Clara gave him a flat look. "I've got better things to-" She stopped, realising that she'd just as good as accepted that she was going to be a Herald. She'd known it somehow, deep in the back of her mind, ever since the mysterious man had come to speak to her. His words had resonated with her, filling a hole in her soul that had been empty for so long. She still wasn't entirely pleased about having her entire life turned about in the span of a half-hour, but she knew it was going to happen.

"Can I walk?" she asked him as she rose to her feet. "I don't like to ride."

_:You're going to be spending a lot of time in the saddle.:_

"Then I'm definitely walking." Clara laid a hand on his neck. "Valdemar had best appreciate how lucky it is."

_:I'm sure the land will make its gratitude known immediately,:_ he retorted dryly. _:Everyone will come out of their houses to shower us with rose petals as we proceed to the Palace.:_

"What about my things?" Clara realised suddenly. She was wearing her mother's ring, but the rest of her belongings were still in her bedchamber, and she couldn't leave her book behind. She started to pull away from Eirian to head back to the house.

_:Someone will be sent to fetch your belongings. You won't be needing your clothes anymore, but the rest of your things will be brought to the Collegium for you.:_

"Oh? I didn't realise the Heralds went around entirely naked," she teased Eirian. Really, going around naked might have been preferable to spending the next few years in trainee Greys, and the rest of her life in Whites.

_:Are you sure you don't want to ride?:_ he asked instead. _:You humans are so slow. We would be there already if you'd just climbed on my back.:_

"No," Clara said firmly. If she could make one last choice of her own, then she was damn well going to, and she was going to arrive at the Palace on foot instead of on a Companion's back.


	2. Chapter 2

Clara settled into life at the Collegium with a surprising ease. Although she was the oldest Trainee, they reassured her that this sort of thing was perfectly normal, and they scheduled her for private tutoring in the few subjects she needed to be educated in, rather than put her into classes. Instead, she was assigned to teach reading and history to the very youngest Trainees, and to help some of the others who were having difficulty. And the students here _were_ different, as the Companion who had spoken to her had promised. They were all eager to learn, and though that didn't prevent the occasional bout of high spirits in the classroom, it meant they were so much easier to deal with, so much more pleasant to teach. She almost hoped that her duty as a Herald would involve being permanently assigned to the Collegium to teach Trainees.

Even riding wasn't so bad with Eirian as her mount. Riding a Companion was, of course, nothing like riding a real horse, and Eirian was surprisingly patient with her lack of ability. Under his direction, she gradually learned to move with him, and the day they finally got up to a gallop - that was _magnificent_ , flying through Companions' Field with the wind streaming through her hair. For just a moment, Clara felt truly free, more than she had in years - since before her mother had died. 

_:Just wait till you see the real pace a Companion can set,:_ Eirian boasted as he pranced back to the stables, head lifted high. Clara got the feeling that he was faster than most Companions were, thanks to his slight size. They suited each other well, physically and in temperament. She'd met other Companions who were stocky and stolid, and they seemed nice enough, but Clara knew she would have been bored with one before long. Eirian was quick-witted, his tongue nearly as sharp as hers, and when their wills clashed, it was truly a struggle to make either one of them back down.

"I'll stick to where we're at now, thanks." Clara made a face as she slid off his back. She still got saddlesore quickly, and there were times when it was difficult to walk after her riding lessons. Thankfully, it was her last lesson today, and she could soak in one of the tubs until dinner. First, though, she had to take care of Eirian. Learning how to saddle and unsaddle him had been tricky, but she had the feel of it now, and it didn't take her long to remove the saddle and set it and the blanket aside. She rubbed him down, then brushed his coat as he sighed happily. He loved being groomed, and he especially liked having ribbons braided into his mane - something which Clara preferred to save for special occasions.

_:Are you tutoring tonight?:_ Eirian asked idly, munching on a bucket of grain as Clara brushed the tangles out of his mane.

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

_:You ought to take a look at the Palace Library sometime,:_ he suggested. The Collegium had its own smaller library, but the Palace, Clara knew, had the largest library in Haven. She hadn't found time to poke her nose into its stacks yet, but since Eirian had suggested it, she thought she might as well take his advice.

"While you flirt with the mares, you mean?" She knew perfectly well that her Companion was fond of wooing several mares, though she didn't know if he wanted to do anything more serious, or if he just liked flirting. Companions were like humans, after all - well, horses didn't _flirt_ , they just mounted when mares were in season. She'd carefully been informed that Companion mares were, like human females, always in season, and they engaged in courtships in much the same way humans did (although she didn't think there were many longer-term couplings amongst them).

Eirian contrived to look innocent, widening his blue eyes. _:I talk to the mares to pass the time, if that's what you mean.:_

"Yeah, I'll bet you talk." Clara rolled her eyes. "Try not to break too many hearts, all right?" She gave his muzzle one last pat before she returned to the Collegium for a bath and dinner.

After dinner, she made her way up to the Palace proper. She hadn't explored here yet, feeling a little uneasy. While technically, her status as a Trainee meant that she would one day be the equal of any lord or lady, she didn't feel that way, and she didn't want to risk accidentally offending anyone - or getting lost in the huge warren of corridors that made up the palace. With instructions from Eirian, she found her way to the library, and she gasped as she caught sight of the shelves of books. This was absolutely magnificent - if the Collegium's library held so many books that she wouldn't be able to read them in one lifetime, this had enough books to satisfy more than a dozen lifetimes of reading. Clara didn't even know where to start.

"Just pick one," a gravelly voice suggested behind her. Clara jumped, unaware that there was anyone else in the library with her. "Though I would personally recommend skipping over the section on horticulture, unless you're looking for something to send you to sleep."

"You-" Clara's eyes widened as she caught sight of the man behind her. "I thought I'd imagined you! You just turned up out of nowhere, and then I didn't see you again, and nobody else said anything about you."

"I keep to myself." He shrugged, moving up to stand next to Clara. "Like you, from what I hear."

"I don't!" she protested. "I teach, and-" All right, so she didn't have any real friends at the Collegium. Everyone her own age was already a full Herald, and they were usually out on circuit; she hadn't had a chance to get to know any of the Heralds yet. And, well, she didn't want to befriend people who were still children in her eyes, the Trainees who were all ten years (or more) younger than she was. "How do you know about me?" she demanded instead.

"I pay attention," was his response. "The Trainees gossip about the girl who sits by herself, who never does anything with anyone else. They think you're an excellent teacher, but that you look lonely. The Companions talk about you, too. Remember, part of a Herald's duty is to gather information for the Crown; when they're off-duty, it's only natural that they keep gathering information, no matter what it is. Usually talking about each other. And the Companions are a bunch of busybodies anyway."

"Great," Clara grumbled. "So now everyone knows everything about me." She didn't mind being lonely; she'd been lonely for as long as she could remember. Not having any friends didn't really bother her. "See if I give Eirian any apples after this." She liked to slip him an apple before classes began in the morning, but if he was going to gossip about her, then she wouldn't spoil him any longer.

"Oh, don't blame him. The rest of them hear about you from their Heralds and come to their own conclusions - only a few of them have to listen to him talk about you while he's flirting. Young stallions in the herd." He snorted, shaking his head. 

"Weren't you ever a young stallion?" Clara joked, giving him a crooked smile. 

"Me? I never had that much, er, _energy_. I spent most of my time in here when I was younger." He ran the fingers of his free hand over the spines of the books, caressing them lovingly. "Some of my best friends are in here."

"So is that what this is? You think we're kindred spirits or something?" Clara frowned slightly. She didn't want to be friends with anyone who felt sorry for her, anyone who felt obligated to because he saw something of himself in her.

"Somewhat. And I like keeping an eye on fellow unconventional Heralds. They're the ones who make the biggest marks on history, if you hadn't noticed. All Heralds leave ripples in their paths, but some create tidal waves."

"Like Vanyel." Clara shivered. Vanyel Demonsbane was a name that wouldn't soon be forgotten in the annals of her country's history.

"Like Vanyel," he agreed. "Not that I think you're another Vanyel. You don't have the proper air of tragedy about you."

"Well, I'm glad of that!" She laughed, shaking her head to dispel the slightly gloomy feelings that had fallen about her at the talk of Heralds dying young. "How do you know that about Vanyel, though? You can't have been alive when he was, that was hundreds of years ago."

"Read it in accounts from the time." He shrugged it off. "There are still journals from people who knew Vanyel, if you know where to look. Most of them are with the Chronicler, sealed away from view of the ordinary public - or most Heralds, for that matter. And not many Heralds choose to seek them out."

"Not enough time?" she guessed, and he nodded his agreement. Trainees spent nearly all their time in classes or doing chores (Clara had been made exempt from chores thanks to her tutoring duty), and proper Heralds were on circuit or else fulfilling their duties in Haven. Any spare time was usually spent relaxing, whether enjoying their own pursuits or stealing a few moments to spend with loved ones. She thought ignoring records of the past entirely was a bit silly, but maybe most Heralds thought they'd learnt all they needed to know of history from their classes. Clara knew that there was more to history than just the accounts most people were told, though. "Can anyone ask to read them?"

"If you've permission from the Chronicler." He gave her a wry smile. "Which you do."

"I've never- oh." She still didn't know his name, but at least now she knew what he did, and why he seemed to be so nosy. It was his duty to know everything that happened with the Heralds - most of it would never be committed to paper, but something seemingly minor might become relevant later on, and it would certainly be worth knowing about it when it happened. He was the one who drew the threads of stories together to weave a tale for the Heralds of future generations.

"Bit slow, aren't you?" The sardonic smile still hadn't left his face; Clara imagined it was an expression he wore a lot. "Not up to your usual standards at all, Clara."

"As if I've had time to try and figure anything out!" she retorted sharply. "In case you hadn't noticed, I've been a bit busy between learning a couple extra languages, studying half the other things a Herald needs to know, and teaching the other half."

"I notice you didn't mention weaponswork."

Clara made a face. Of course he would bring up her weak point; she was even worse at using a sword than she was at riding, and she didn't have a magic sword that was willing to help her get better. "I'm all right," she insisted stubbornly.

"Tell the Weaponsmaster I said to try you with daggers or shortsword. Maybe rapier, but it's useless for a Herald. Forget staffwork entirely, shortbow ought to be decent."

"How-"

"Companions' gossip." He shrugged unapologetically. "You're right, Eirian really ought to be careful who he talks to, but he'll spill anything to a mare with a pair of pretty blue eyes."

"That's all of them."

 

"Yeah, now you see the problem." He chuckled, his own eyes sparkling. "But especially to my Companion. He seems to be a bit enamoured with her. Not that she would ever encourage anything like it."

"That is incredibly sneaky and underhanded." Clara frowned, sticking her chin out stubbornly. She didn't like having her privacy invaded like that, and she especially didn't like having Eirian manipulated. She often got the feeling that he was young - as young as Companions ever were, anyway. No matter their physical age, they all seemed so much older than they really were - except, apparently, for when they acted like young, stupid teenage boys thinking with the wrong part of their anatomy. "I don't like it."

"Oh, well, excuse me for doing something you don't like."

"Heralds are meant to be honourable," she insisted. "Honourable and trustworthy and-"

"No."

"Yeah, they are, I've been paying attention in classes." Including the ones she taught.

His eyebrows narrowed. "What did we talk about when we first met, Clara?" He seemed displeased with her, not unlike a teacher annoyed with a student who failed to understand a lesson. It was a situation Clara had seen many times before, but she wasn't used to being on the receiving end of it.

"Choices," was the first thing she offered as she cast her memory back. It seemed so long ago, though it had only been a couple months. The entire conversation was like something out of a dream. "Finding a place to belong. You said-"

"Never stop questioning."

"Fine. Why would you do something like that?"

He grinned at her again, a mercurial expression, a flash of teeth that was nearly manic. "Good! But the thing about questioning is that you rarely get the answer handed to you. It's meant to make you think. Why would someone try to find out about you?"

"Because they're odd. Possibly daft." Clara wrinkled her nose. "For purposes of keeping your Chronicles, but you can't do that to every Trainee. You wouldn't have time. Because you think I'm going to create tidal waves. Because-"

"Because I can't tell you." There was something sad in his gaze, and he turned to look at the books to hide it. "Shortsword and dagger, Clara. You don't have to like it, but every Herald has to be able to defend themselves. Even me." He twisted the top of his cane, and a shining length of steel peeked out from what she now realised was a sheath.

"What happened to your leg?" Clara looked down at the aforementioned appendage, but it seemed to be normal under the white cloth of his trousers.

"I was a young, stupid stallion once. Or I thought I was young, and I wasn't any longer." He pulled a book off the shelf, seemingly at random, and handed it to Clara. "Not all great Heralds die in the line of duty. Some of us are left to fade away until we're no longer even a memory in the minds of those who once served with us." He pushed the cane back together until it made a soft click, tapping it on the floor to make sure it was properly secured once more, and delicately stepped around Clara to leave the library. For someone clad in Whites, he disappeared into the shadows effectively - when she peered into the corridor, he was gone before she could run to follow after him.

And, she realised, she still didn't even know his name.


	3. Chapter 3

Asking about the Chronicler (for that was how she had begun to refer to him in her mind) made Clara feel awkward; it didn't help that she still didn't know many of the Heralds. None of the Trainees, she knew, would have the foggiest idea who he was. While she thought about asking the Dean in her weekly meeting with him, she discarded the idea immediately, not wanting to look foolish. There was simply no way to casually bring it up in conversation with anyone else, and not even her own Companion knew the man's name.

"I can't believe you." Clara glowered at Eirian, arms folded over her chest. "You've been flirting with his Companion and you don't even know his name."

_:Well, we don't talk about him.:_ Eirian hung his head sheepishly, or at least as sheepishly as a horse could manage. 

"No, I reckon you don't do much talking at all, do you?" As Clara knew full well, thanks to the bond with her Companion, which she had discovered could be incredibly inconvenient at times. Especially if you happened to be bonded to a young stallion, which she was, and it was a lovely summer night, perfect for whatever activities Companions - and humans - happened to enjoy in that sort of weather.

_:You told me to stop talking about you, so I did.:_ His tone was almost smug, and it only served to make her angrier - mainly with herself, but she wanted to take her frustration out on her Companion. It was so bloody _uncomfortable_ for her. Not everyone had such experiences, she knew - the bond came in varying strengths. Some people, who Clara reckoned were probably the lucky ones, couldn't even Mindspeak with their Companions. Others, like her, had strong bonds that allowed them to speak with them, and usually experienced what they did. Clara kicked the side of the stall in frustration and only succeeded in banging her toes through the thick leather boots that Heralds and Trainees both wore.

"Someday, I'm going to send you off to the knacker's," she muttered under her breath. 

"Are you actually threatening to have your Companion made into sausages?" There was a hint of laughter in the voice, and the speaker stepped into view from where she'd been currying her own Companion a few stalls down. "Sounds a little extreme to me, but who'm I to judge?" She had long red hair pulled back in a plait, and she appeared to be about Clara's age. "I'm Amelia," she introduced herself. "And my Companion is Anissa." 

"Clara, and Sausagemeat here is better known as Eirian." She made a face at her Companion, who responded by batting his long eyelashes innocently. 

"You're the one who was just recently Chosen, right? I've been out on circuit near Lake Evendim, and I've only been back in Haven a couple of days. Let me tell you, I've never been happier to rinse the mud off in my entire life - although I think that was the only thing keeping me from being eaten alive by bugs." 

If there was one thing in her future Clara wasn't looking forward to, it was the prospect of riding circuit and living rough. Oh, there were Waystations to provide for Heralds, and inns, but she knew that every Herald spent a certain amount of time in the worst conditions imaginable. She'd spent her entire life living comfortably in Haven, and she didn't relish the thought of sleeping on the ground, even in dry weather.

_:Spoiled,:_ Eirian remarked as he picked up on her train of thought.

"Do the Companions ever stop offering their commentary on everything?" she asked Amelia as she pointedly ignored Eirian's comment. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

"We should be so lucky." The other woman wrinkled her nose. "They've always got to have the last word on everything, I'm afraid. Listen, I'm heading back over to the Collegium for lunch. Want to come along? Unless you've got something else to do, that is."

"No, that'd be lovely." She wasn't too disheveled from her time riding - or too horsey-smelling - to be in polite company, and she could always change and wash after lunch, before her first class. Clara was desperate enough for companionship - and a conversation that wasn't half in her head - that she wasn't going to turn an opportunity down. She just hoped that she wasn't going to end up sitting at a table full of strangers with a conversation that would go entirely over her head.

Thankfully, Amelia led her to a table with only one other person, a sandy-haired man in Healer green with a rather impressive nose. She gave him a quick peck on the lips before she sat down next to him. "Rory, this is Clara," she introduced them. "Clara, Rory." The Trainee bringing food to their table made a face at the public display of affection, and Amelia stuck her tongue out in return.

"Don't worry, she did the same thing to me when I first came to the Collegium," Rory offered. "Dragged me over and said I was going to eat with her. It's sort of a thing she does, adopting the- whatever we are."

"Strays?" Clara suggested with a sardonic smile. She helped herself to a collection of greens from the bowl, then a few slices of beef and a piece of bread. "At least, that's what I am, I reckon. Don't know about you."

"No, that sounds about right."

"A little lost puppy," Amelia added. "In robes that were two sizes too big for you and with no idea what you were doing or where you were going." She gave him a fond smile, squeezing his hand, and that was when Clara noticed the matching rings they wore. It wasn't that Heralds didn't get married, but they didn't do it often - something about the lives they led didn't lend itself well to romantic attachments. They were rarely around, and spouses who were Heralds regularly found themselves assigned to different parts of the kingdom for long periods of time. But there were those who bucked the trend and stubbornly made marriages work, she knew - many of those had partners in one of the other Collegia, like Amelia apparently did.

"It's a bit strange, being the new person here." Clara stabbed a piece of vegetable with more force than it strictly deserved. "I don't fit in with the other Trainees - I _teach_ the other Trainees - or with the Heralds. It's just...awkward. I mean, at least you lot had your yearmates. I've got no one. Except Eirian, I suppose." And while she knew that having a Companion meant that she'd never be alone again, it didn't keep her from being _lonely_. There was only so much he could do to keep her company. Maybe some people were content to spend their entire lives with nobody but their Companion, but Clara wasn't one of them. She wanted other people, other friends.

"And I suppose nobody's bothered to try to include you because we're all so busy rushing around that we barely remember what we're meant to do, let alone think about anyone else. It's not that the Heralds aren't inclusive - we usually get along with each other, more or less, and we welcome all our fellow Chosen. Nobody means to leave you out, really, we just...don't think about it." Amelia had the grace to look embarrassed. "Especially when we've only got so much time here in Haven before heading back out on our next assignment. There's a lot to catch up on." She gave Rory a significant glance, the sort that implied their 'catching up' was largely nonverbal. Not that Clara could blame her, since a Herald's circuit usually lasted around a year. She couldn't even imagine leaving someone she loved for that amount of time.

"You ought to try meeting some of the Bards and Healers," Rory offered. "Especially the teachers at the other Collegia. The rest are in and out - especially the Bards - but the teachers largely stay the same from term to term, especially at Healers'. There's more to life on the hill than just the Heralds, even if you lot like to pretend you're the centre of the world."

"We are," Amelia insisted, pretending to be offended. "What would the rest of you do without Heralds?"

"Have a lot more free time, for one thing. Heralds make up a disproportionate number of our patients, probably because you run around in white all the time." Clara smiled at that; she wasn't much of a fan of the Whites, either. She understood why they worked from a symbolic point of view, but from a pragmatic one? She didn't think it made sense for people who had to hide themselves as much as Heralds did - for whatever reason - to wear white uniforms. But since their Companions couldn't be disguised, either, wearing other clothes was rather a moot point.

(Not that Clara didn't dream of wearing other clothes. She was already sick of grey - the exact same grey the teenagers she taught wore - and she knew she'd be sick of white, in time. She wondered idly if she could get permission to wear dresses in the same shade of grey for teaching classes, or maybe a different shade. Wearing the same clothing as her students wasn't the sort of thing that worked well to establish her authority, particularly not for someone who was as small as Clara was.)

"That's a good idea." She cut Rory off, sensing that this was the beginning of a play-fight he and Amelia had had many times before. "I've been too busy teaching my own classes to socialise much - seems that having a background in teaching children means that you get put to work doing just that after you get Chosen. Not that I mind; it's a refreshing change from the awful brats I was governessing for before I came here. I'm sure you've seen enough of the Blues to know how noble children are." 

While there were some Blues - not enough - who attended classes because they genuinely wanted to learn, many of them were noble children whose parents didn't want to pay for tutors, and so they took advantage of the free option offered to them by the Crown while they were living in Haven. Clara didn't have any of the Blues in her classes - she taught the most basic classes, usually the ones for Trainees from the most rural areas to catch up to their peers in subjects like reading and writing, and the nobles typically engaged their own tutors for those while their children were still young - she knew well about their reputation in academics.

"Given them enough hangover cures, anyway." Rory rolled his eyes. "They treat the healers like we're their personal herbalists, too. They're a nuisance, but I'm afraid there's nothing any of us can do about them."

"And then they grow up and become the Heralds' own personal headache," Amelia groaned. "Trying to cheat the people who live on their lands, trying to cheat on their taxes, and who knows what else. Gods, what sort of first impression are we giving you? I swear Rory and I don't spend all our time complaining to every new person we meet."

"Oh, no, it's fine. Some things are worth complaining about." And Clara didn't mind, really; even good-natured griping was better than her usual lunch spent in solitude. "Listen, do either of you know anything about the Herald-Chronicler?"

"That old man?" Amelia shook her head. "As far as I know, he keeps to himself, more or less. I don't think I've seen him more than a handful of times."

"He has a Healer send him pain teas for his joints," Rory offered. "And he's got an old wound that plagues him. Something he got before he apprenticed as Chronicler, I think - probably from riding circuit. As far as I know, he's kept to Haven since then."

"Why would you want to know about him?" 

Clara wondered what to tell them - if she ought to share the truth, that the old man kept seeking her out for conversations, treating her in the most cryptic way possible, that he'd admitted to having some strange interest in her. "I heard someone talking about him," she said instead, deciding that the real reason was entirely too strange to share, particularly with people she had only just met. "I didn't know who he was - still don't, I suppose. All the other members of the Circle, you see regularly, and I thought it was strange that he was the only one I wasn't familiar with." It was true, mostly; she could at least identify most of the senior Heralds by sight, and she had seen them going about their business in Collegium and palace. Only the Chronicler seemed to absent himself from the daily lives of the Heralds - and yet, peculiarly, he was the one responsible for documenting them. 

The location of the Heraldic Archives was no secret, though it seemed few Heralds ever sought it out. Located in the Palace, it was near the Archives for the rest of the kingdom. A quick test of the knob proved that it was unlocked, and so Clara felt justified in letting herself in without knocking first. It was a good deal smaller than the other rooms that contained records; most of the Heraldic Archives consisted of leather-bound books that lined bookshelves. Originals and copies of originals dating back to the Founding of Valdemar, if the history lessons taught at the Collegium were to believed. The rest of the archives were dedicated to what one might expect, boxes of carefully filed papers relating to - well, Clara had no idea. Letters, communiques, accounts, declarations, and whatever else the Chronicler of the time had deemed worth keeping, she supposed. The single desk in the room was covered with bits of parchment and a few of the books, older ones covered in dust, newer ones that were being written in, and journals from every time in between. She wondered about the filing system - if there even was a filing system, given the state of the desk. The weight of history surrounded her in that moment. Heralds had been instrumental in every major event since the first Companions had appeared in the Grove, and being in the archives was like experiencing the entire history of Valdemar distilled into its essence.

"Don't get too excited. History has got just as many boring bits as the present, we just gloss over them when we're talking about it." Clara had just been about to lower herself into the chair behind the desk when he spoke, and she froze with a small squeak of surprise. "I see I'm getting mice in here now. Too bad I'm a Herald, not a Sunpriest, else I might have a solution to the problem." He had been behind a shelf, in the process of reaching to one of the higher shelves to get a tome down, and his arm was still extended as he poked his head round the corner of the shelf.

"What do you mean?" Clara asked finally. It was the only question she could think of; all the hundreds of others she'd had had fled her mind when he'd surprised her - as he seemed to have a talent for doing.

"High-ranking Sunpriests in Karse - usually the Son of the Sun, though I suppose it could be anyone deemed worthy by Vkandis - in the past, have rarely been blessed by the appearance of Firecats. Though if they're anything like Companions, and I expect they are, I would question whether or not it's actually a blessing. But the Firecats haven't been witnessed in generations, from what I've read." He took down the book he'd been looking for, wrinkling his nose at the dust that covered the leather. "Here. The private account of Herald-Mage Savil, Vanyel Demonsbane's aunt. She was present for all of Vanyel's training, and his all too short life. There are even rumours that she saved his life by taking him to the Hawkbrothers to be healed."

"Tales out of the Pelagirs," Clara dismissed them, trying to act like she hadn't been enamoured by tales of the reclusive Hawkbrothers and their cousins the Shin'a'in as a young girl.

"Oh, clearly. And you would know what's real and what isn't, having been out of Haven how many times?"

She blushed at the accusation that she was - was _ignorant_ , that she was some stupid little girl who'd never ventured outside the city walls (even though she hadn't).

"Never mind." He waved it aside. "After that, I recommend reading the accounts of Herald Pol, the mentor of Lavan Firestorm. If you want to know about history, you have to hear it in the words of those who were there, the people who know what happened. Relying entirely on what you've been told leads to inaccuracies and stupid misconceptions, like thinking the Tayledras are something from children's tales, or blindly hating the Karsites."

"The Karsites hate us, though."

"Wrong!" he barked. "Don't be stupid, Clara. Use your head. You can't lump an entire nation into one whole. The highest-ranking Sunpriests hate us, for the most part, though I doubt they know why at this point. Certainly those who follow them blindly do, because they've been told to. But do you really think the average Karsite peasant has the time or the energy to devote to hating a nation that can't possibly affect their daily life? They have to till their fields or herd their goats, try to keep their family fed and pay the tithes the Sunpriests demand. They hate us as much as they hate the moon."

"It doesn't matter what they think, though, because they aren't the ones making the decisions." This reminded Clara uncomfortably of her Ethics class, one of the few she was required to take (and she wondered for a moment why the Chronicler wasn't her teacher, since it seemed to be a subject he relished in arguing). "The Karsite peasant doesn't hate us, but he doesn't lead troops over the border into Valdemar, either."

"What he does do is wonder in those few moments he has. Take a farmer who lives by the border, who can see that we're the same as he is. He wonders why the priests denounce us as demons, why the Heralds are said to ride demons. He wonders why the tithes increase year after year and his village sees no benefit while the Sunpriests grow fatter. He talks to his friends about it, and they talk to other people, and maybe, eventually, the ideas trickle through the population. They realise they don't have to hate us, that we aren't the source of their problems. One peasant can lead to a change in leadership in the same way a single pebble can lead to a rockslide." His eyes had widened as he spoke, making him look not unlike a particularly energetic owl - albeit one that had a tendency to gesticulate wildly. His hands, Clara couldn't help but notice, were particularly elegant and long-fingered, and she wondered for one ridiculous moment if he had ever considered Bardic training.

"That is incredibly unrealistic," Clara countered. "What are the odds of that happening? I mean, it hasn't occurred in however many years of our problems with Karse. Why would things suddenly change?"

"Who knows? But it takes a spark to make a flame. You say it's unlikely that a simple peasant would start a revolution, but is it really less likely than a baron deciding to flee with his people, across a great distance, and establish a kingdom in the wilderness? Or that he would pray to the gods for guidance and they would answer him? History is full of improbabilities, of strange circumstances, of impossibilities coming together at the right place and the right time. You can't discredit them just because you don't think they can happen. And if you aren't going to sit down, then I'd like to use my chair, thanks."

Clara blinked, realising she was still hovering above the Chronicler's chair, and lowered herself the last few inches to sit. He took his own seat on a chair - moving a pile of books onto the desk first - and passed the journal he held to her. "Why are you talking so much about Karse? Is there something I ought to be worried about?"

"Ah, thinking like a Herald for once. Nothing more than the usual tension - tinder on the verge of breaking into flame with the right provocation. Karse just provided a handy example. Our other neighbours, after all, are content with their lot - and with us - for the moment. Though I suppose there's no real way of telling with Iftel. None of the Chronicles have anything to say about them, and the lack of information is more telling than anything else." Judging by the look on his face, he considered not knowing about something to be a very personal offence.

"Has anyone discussed your Internship with you?" he continued.

Clara shook her head. "I thought I'd have years to go yet before I got that far."

"There's a special sort of Internship we Heralds use rarely - typically for the Heir, since they can't ride out on circuit, but occasionally for others who fulfill other functions within the Circle. I'd like to take you on as Chronicler-Second once you've got your Whites, and have you as my apprentice on what we call a long-track internship until then. It's used for our more, ah, unconventional Trainees who come to us as adults." He steepled his fingers, studying her with steely grey eyes. The overall effect was like being scrutinised by a large bird of prey - a hawk now, perhaps, rather than an owl - particularly when you took his beaklike nose into consideration. "You would be an intern from now on, not a traditional Trainee, but your internship will be longer than the usual year and a half on circuit - until you're finished with your classes. Including weapons work." There was the slightest amused quirk of an eyebrow. "I'd like to take you out riding for a period of time, to survey the kingdom, but it won't be anything like a Herald's circuit. As Herald-Chronicler, you'll have to write about everything that happens throughout Valdemar, not just the Heralds here in Haven, and you need to be familiar with the country. Once you have your Whites, I may recommend you be sent on diplomatic missions to other countries, as well. You know what they say - travel broadens your horizons."

"Even more than being a Herald in the first place?" Clara quipped. 

"No matter how broad your horizons, they can always be just a little bit broader." He favoured her with a slightly sad smile. "I'm afraid mine haven't been broadened in far too long. I'm not very good with long rides these days."

"What happened to your leg?" The cane, she noticed, was leaned against the chair, just within reach.

"Oh, if you don't believe in Hawkbrothers, there's no chance you'll ever believe that story. That, Clara, will have to wait for some other day."


	4. Chapter 4

Months had passed since the conversation when Clara had agreed to become the Chronicler's apprentice. Though she still wore Trainee grey, she'd talked a seamstress into making her dresses in the proper colour - and, all right, trimming them with brightly coloured ribbon, because keeping to grey all the time make her feel like one of the Holderkin. She wore matching ribbons in her hair, and often braided more of them into Eirian's mane. Today, though, she was back in trews and tunic, and Eirian's mane and tail were devoid of fripperies. It was a blustery winter day, and she and Ioannes - for, as she had found out, that was his name - were leaving Haven for the first time. 

(It had taken her a few weeks to get up the nerve to ask him his name, mostly because she was embarrassed that it had taken her to long to get around to actually finding it out. The man had the most irritating way of suddenly disappearing mid-conversation, though, and actually being his apprentice was...strange. There were no lessons in the traditional sense of the word, no actual training. She would go to the Archives, or he would appear wherever she was, or he would send her a hastily scribbled note to meet her somewhere so he could expound on whatever happened to be on his mind at the time. There was very little writing actually involved.)

"We couldn't postpone this till spring?" she asked, a little irritably. Clara had been planning on spending Midwinter with Amelia and Rory; the pair were (for once) both in Haven for the holiday, and they had invited her to share in their festivities. Even if she hadn't had other plans, staying in the nice, warm Collegium was infinitely preferable to being stuck Companion-back out in the weather. Eirian wasn't especially happy about it, either; he didn't even have the benefit of being able to wear multiple layers of clothing. All he had between him and the elements was a coat of what was nothing more than horsehair.

"Have you ridden in spring before? It's soggy and miserable. You get soaked to the bone, and you aren't likely to dry out till summer. I'd catch my death of pneumonia." He was wearing a thick white woollen cape, nearly identical to Clara's in every way but the colour and the fur trim. (She didn't begrudge him the latter; he probably needed everything he could get to keep him warm.) She had to say one thing for the Heralds, they had very good cold-weather gear. The pair of them had been kitted out with everything they might need, although quite a lot of Clara's equipment was too large for her.

"Oh, yeah, because this is so much better," Clara retorted. A glance up at the grey sky showed that it was liable to snow; the low-hanging clouds were that particular shade that foreshadowed its arrival. She only hoped they could make it to a Waystation - or, even better, a nice inn - before that happened. 

"Just wait till we go to the Forest of Sorrows or the Pelagirs. You'll be begging for nice winter weather then."

"The Pelagirs?" Clara was familiar with the forest, reputed to be home to the fabled Hawkbrothers, and the stories about it being full of beasts that had been warped and twisted by... _something_. It was beyond Valdemar's borders, and she hadn't expected to be venturing out of the country. Surely the Circle couldn't go without its Chronicler for an extended period of time. "Why would we go there?"

"Why not? You aren't afraid, are you?"

"Afraid?" Clara scoffed. She wasn't afraid - it wasn't like there was any _proof_ that monsters existed. As for the Hawkbrothers, although they were mysterious, they were also reclusive; it was entirely possible that they could venture into the Pelagirs without seeing one the entire time. "Come on, I'm a Herald. Why would I be afraid of a forest?"

"Oh, all sorts of reasons, many of them good. It's not the trees you ought to be afraid of, but what lurks within them. Much of it is uncleansed, to use the Hawkbrothers' term for it; their sacred duty is to reclaim the land and make it suitable for human habitation once more. They've been doing it for generation upon generation, and there's no way of telling how many more it will take them."

"What do you mean, uncleansed?" She frowned down at Eirian's mane, but the Companion didn't give any sign that he knew what the Chronicler was talking about, either. Companions largely concerned themselves with events within Valdemar - and events that concerned it. 

"Corrupted. Polluted so that healthy creatures and plants are incapable of surviving. Warped beyond recognition. Incredibly dangerous. You _should_ be afraid of the Pelagiris, Clara, because if you aren't afraid, then you won't survive. I made that mistake once. Never again."

"You mean your leg?" Clara was aware that he probably thought she sounded daft, asking so many stupid questions and parroting what he said. But she was intensely curious about what had left him crippled; nobody else at the Collegium seemed to know how or even when it had happened, and that shouldn't have been possible.

He didn't answer her, and the pair fell silent for a time, their breath and that of their Companions fogging white in the winter air. Ioannes took a book from one of his packs and began reading, entirely indifferent to the fact that he was on horseback. Clara had never seen anyone read while riding before, but she figured that since he was riding a Companion, he didn't exactly need to concentrate; they were still close enough to Haven that the roads were patrolled more regularly than they might have been elsewhere, and the risk of bandits attacking was low. 

"We ought to make the Waystation by nightfall," he said finally, without looking up from his book. "I don't know when the snow is going to start, but I doubt it'll be heavy at first."

"I'd rather stop before then, if we come across a village." Clara didn't want to stay in a Waystation their first night out, not in weather like this. It would likely be cold and unused, and they'd have to make their own food. Better to stay in an inn and have their needs catered to by an innkeeper, she thought. The Companions would probably rather be in a nice heated stable, too.

"It'll be fine," he replied brusquely. "You don't need to stay in an inn your very first night - honestly, am I going to have to coddle you to the Border and back?" He had a way of speaking sometimes that made her feel like a small child being chastised by her parents - except that instead of making her feel guilty, it made her feel angry.

"I don't think staying at an inn is exactly _coddling_ ," she retorted sharply. "Plenty of Heralds take advantage of the opportunity and aren't worse off for it. It's easier for the people who have to make sure the Waystations are stocked and prepared for Heralds who might actually need to use them, too. If we don't have to stay in one, we shouldn't." Suddenly, Clara found herself afraid that they would spend the entire trip bickering. He'd been friendly to her - more or less - so far, with only a few brief personality clashes. What if being alone together for weeks on end revealed that they couldn't work together at all? It made her even more concerned about staying in a Waystation. At least in an inn, she would be able to spend time in the common room to get away from him, and they would have separate rooms.

"All right," he growled, tugging his cape more tightly around him. "For tonight." His eyebrows knitted together, looking like the storm clouds above, and Clara decided it was a good idea to stop needling him.

Less than a candlemark later, fat flakes of snow began to fall, and Clara drew the hood of her cloak up. _:Do you think I made the wrong choice?:_ she asked Eirian privately. She'd been honing her Mindspeech lately, and she'd learnt to speak to him in her mind, rather than out loud.

_:No.:_ His voice sounded more confident than Clara felt. _:There's more to it than you know. He genuinely likes you; he wouldn't have chosen you if he didn't. Ioannes doesn't get along with many people. That's what Idris says, anyway.:_

_:He doesn't get along with me, either, apparently.:_ His back was ramrod-straight, and he was pointedly not looking at her or speaking to her. This was the second time today he'd gone silent on her, and it didn't exactly herald well for the future.

_:He's...prickly. And prideful, though he doesn't act like it. You keep hitting his weak spots, and all he can do is lash out. He's been lonely for a long time, and he's not the best at being around people. Give him a chance, Clara.:_

_:You make him sound like great company.:_ Clara's mindvoice was sarcastic. _:I'm surprised everyone isn't clamouring to spend time with him.:_

_:He's withdrawn from the world - think of him like a spider in a web. He knows everything that goes on in his web, but he's not really part of anything.:_

_:Just as long as that doesn't make me the fly.:_ Clara spotted smoke rising from the trees up ahead, and Eirian drew even with Idris. "That looks like a village, don't you think?" There were enough trails of smoke to indicate that it was a good-sized village, too, not one that would only have an inn with a couple of rooms to let. A nice inn, she thought, or maybe a Guard post, and real warm dinner - hopefully a filling stew. She couldn't wait to get inside and warm herself. She wondered how he handled it; his bones must have been aching in the cold.

_:He's not that old, you know,:_ Eirian interjected into her thoughts. _:You just think he looks old. Heralds often go grey prematurely.:_

_:Was it really necessary to add that?:_ Clara reached up with one gloved hand to pat at her own hair self-consciously. She didn't even want to think about seeing grey in her hair for another twenty years.

_:I'm just telling you, he's not as decrepit as you think he is. He wouldn't have suggested this if he knew his joints would be aching the whole time.:_

Clara still wasn't sure why he had suggested it anyway; a ride to the border with Karse would take a week at the fastest pace a Companion could gallop. At their pace, it would be more like two weeks to get there, and another two weeks back - long enough that someone else would have to take her classes once the Midwinter holiday at the Collegium was over. She knew he wanted her to travel, to see the outside world, but in the middle of winter? It was entirely absurd. They would both be miserable in this weather, and when Clara was miserable, she made her opinion on the matter known. (Although, to be fair, she made her opinion known all the time, regardless of mood.)

As the wind picked up, Clara edged Eirian into a canter. She didn't care whether or not he did the same, but she certainly wanted to get to shelter as soon as possible. The outskirts of the village appeared soon enough, farms dotted here and there, then cottages appearing closer together. The inn was on the village's square, and Clara dismounted once she was in the courtyard. Gods, her muscles hurt; she'd learnt how to ride, but she hadn't spent all day riding before, and she could tell that she was going to be seriously sore in a few candlemarks. Thankfully, Rory had given her salve for just such a circumstance before she'd left, and she'd remembered to pack it in her saddlebags.

Clara led Eirian into the stable, noting that there were a pair of loose boxes at the end. This road was well-travelled enough that they probably kept them ready for Companions, who preferred not to be kept in regular stalls if they had another option. She settled him into one, taking his tack off before she rubbed him down. As she worked him over with the brush, the stableboy came over with a pail of water and one of oats, and she gave him a grateful smile in return. "There's another Herald coming, too," she informed him. "His Companion will need the same treatment, and we'll both need rooms for the night."

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment, tugging at the thatch of hair that flopped over his forehead. "I'll tell 'em, an' get a hot mash ready for both your Companions." The stable seemed to be well-built and solid, without any cracks to let a draft in, and Clara knew that Eirian and Idris would both be cosier in here, with the heat of the other horses to keep the place warm, than they would have been in the lean-to in back of a Waystation.

Clara was nearly finished grooming Eirian by the time the Chronicler arrived, and she glanced up as he dismounted carefully. Though Idris could kneel the same way she did when he mounted, he was perfectly capable of dismounting on his own, as long as he could use his good leg, and he preferred to do it himself.

"You ought to go inside," she told him. He looked drawn from the day's ride, paler than usual, the worn lines of his face carved deeper. "Get warm. I can take care of Idris." Clara didn't want him getting sick - although if he was going to do it, it would be best for it to happen now, a day's ride from Haven, and not when they were at the Border, or somewhere in the wilderness when they were the only people for miles around.

"I've been doing this since I was Chosen," he growled irritably, "and I don't need you to take care of my Companion now. I'm fine."

Clara opened her mouth, about to tell him otherwise, but thought better of it. If he was in a temper, there was nothing she could do but fight with him, and then she'd be in a mood herself. At least one of them needed to not be grouchy, and the best way to do that, she reckoned, was to just get away from him. She turned on the heel of her boot, rolling her eyes once her back was to him, and headed into the warmth of the inn.

"Lady Herald!" the innkeeper greeted her warmly. "I hope your Companions are finding the accommodations suitable." 

"Oh, I'm just a Trainee." Clara blushed self-consciously; he must have known the difference in their clothing. "But the stables are very nice, and your stableboy told me that he was making a mash for Eirian, so I'm sure that he'll be perfectly happy once he gets that. I'd like a hot bath before dinner. Have you got a bathhouse?" She hadn't seen one, but it was possible that it was attached to the inn.

"No, but I'll get one of the girls to bring up water for you. We've got two adjoining rooms upstairs - you've beat the Midwinter rush, in a week or two, every room will be packed to the gills, but right now, I've got beds going a'begging, and with a Bard in town, too." He shook his head, putting the tankard he was wiping with a rag down. "Still, I've got enough folk coming to see him every night that I can't complain. You ought to do the same, Lady Herald, he sings a treat. My own wife's half in love with him, I swear. I'm almost worried I'm going to wake up in the morning to find out she's run off with him!" The innkeeper chuckled, although he glanced over his shoulder to make sure his wife wasn't listening. "He's a way with the women, that one - but most Bards are the same, aren't they?"

Clara hadn't had much interaction with the Bards, although she'd met a bare handful of Trainees in her classes, all of whom were too young to have much interest in flirting with her - or with anyone, for that matter. But she was definitely interested in watching this Bard perform later, and she would make sure to finish bathing in plenty of time to go down and watch.

Her room was small, but kept neat and clean, Clara was gratified to see. She hung her cloak up, then began stripping off her topmost layers as the maid filled the bath for her; she pressed a copper into the girl's hand when she was done, and then took off the rest of her clothes, sinking into the hot water with a contented sigh. She could feel her muscles unkinking and her extremities thawing out for the first time that day, and the maid had used some sort of flower-scented oil that made the water smell absolutely lovely. It might not have been the most luxurious inn, but it was cosy enough in weather like this, and Clara wouldn't have traded it for the world.

After scrubbing herself off, she relaxed to simply soak in the water until it went cold, resting her head against the side of the tub. She began nodding off in the heat, her eyes gradually drifting shut, and then the door between their rooms opened. "Clara, I want-"

She screeched in surprise, startled suddenly awake, and folded her arms over her chest, trying to sink lower in the water. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking? Did it occur to you that I might not be fully dressed?" Obviously he wasn't used to travelling with women, she thought.

"I-" he stammered, and Clara was - for some obtuse reason - gratified to see a blush rising in his cheeks as he forced himself to look away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to, I just- I'll be sure to knock from now on."

Clara grumbled as he shut the door. The water was lukewarm now, her relaxation was ruined, and if she'd had something to throw, she would have thrown it at his head. She climbed out of the tub and wrapped the drying cloth around herself, using a second to rub her hair dry. At least there was a small fireplace in her room, so getting out of the tub wasn't the torture it might have been otherwise. The set of Greys she'd laid out had warmed nicely, and the cloth felt good against her skin. She decided to go down to dinner by herself, leaving Ioannes to his own devices - she didn't think he would be very good company, judging by his earlier behaviour, and she didn't know if he would even come down to the common room for dinner. Everyone in the inn would probably be better off if he just took his supper in his room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about double the length of the usual ones ~~because Jack~~ because I couldn't find a good place for a chapter break in the middle. Sorry if it's too long!

Clara settled in at a table and ordered the specialty of the night - a hearty bean and pork stew, she was glad to find - with a tankard of mulled cider to drink. The common room slowly filled up with the villagers as she ate, most of them coming over to greet her with a quiet word or two of respect, even though she was only a Trainee. 

_:You're still a Herald,:_ Eirian remarked. _:It's courtesy - you don't see much of that in villages that only encounter Heralds once a year or so. These folk know and trust Heralds, and they welcome their presence, Trainee or no.:_

_:It's just embarrassing, that's all.:_ Normally Clara didn't mind being the centre of attention, but she felt like she didn't deserve it. _:Sir Stick in the bum should be the one down here talking to them, not me.:_

_:He's got enough to deal with. Don't needle him, Clara, you've got a long way to go together.:_

_:Mind telling him to be kind to me? Because I think that's more appropriate here, frankly.:_

Eirian shut up at that remark - somewhat conspicuously - and left Clara to eat her dinner in peace. She was just finishing up her stew, wiping the inside of the bowl with the last of her bread, when a man in scarlet sat down across from her.

"So, you're the Herald everyone's talking about." He flashed her a charming smile, and Clara could see why the innkeeper's wife was so smitten. He had a strong jawline and sparkling blue eyes (not unlike a Companion's, but without the somewhat intimidating feeling that you could fall right into them). The Bardic Scarlets were tailored to fit a frame with broad shoulders and a chest that had certainly seen its share of physical labour, and though she couldn't see the lower half of his body, she suspected his trews would look just as good on him. "I'm Jac. And you are?"

"Herald-Trainee Clara, and my Companion is Eirian." By now, introducing her Companion in the same breath was second nature to Clara; it was what every Herald did, even when their Companion wasn't with them. Eirian was part of her, and it was only natural to introduce him as well. "He's the stallion out in the stables; the mare is Idris, my mentor's Companion. He's up in his room, the old grump." Clara rolled her eyes; her tone was still fond when she referred to the old man, but there was an underlying exasperation as well.

"I don't think I've ever seen you around the Collegium, and I think I would remember someone as gorgeous as you." Jac had a way of speaking that made Clara feel like his attention was focused entirely on her, like she was the most important person in the whole room. She wondered if it was part of the Bardic Gift, or something he came by naturally. (Flirting, she knew, wasn't part of the Bardic Gift, but most Bards tended to be proficient at it nonetheless, or so she'd heard.)

"I was Chosen about eight moons ago," Clara explained. "I was a governess before that. So, no, you didn't overlook me; I imagine you've been away from Haven this whole time."

"Missing out on time I could have spent basking in your radiance." He arched an eyebrow at her. "Should I sing 'My Lady's Eyes' for you, or is there some other horribly cliched ballad you'd prefer?"

"Are you allowed to say things like that about your repertoire?" Clara grinned at him. 

"Are you serious? Every Bard worth his or her salt despises songs like that. But the people love them, so we keep trotting them out, dying a little inside every time we sing them." He placed a hand over his heart dramatically, fluttering his eyelashes, and Clara giggled.

"I'd like an original composition, if you're offering. I mean, I don't expect you to make up an ode to my hair on the spot or anything, just something you've already got sitting around." In the time Clara had been at the Collegium, she hadn't yet had the opportunity to enjoy a proper Bardic performance, and she was somewhat curious what it might be like. She had always heard other musicians - minstrels and the like - performing growing up, but never a real Bard. 

"Maybe I was already composing one. 'Her eyes, the colour of-' ...well, it's hard to come up with a good compliment for brown eyes, but I could probably manage. Or I could just sing about your chest, but that would have to wait till after all the younger ones leave." He winked at her. 

Clara looked down at her chest - not strictly the most impressive part of her body, as her curves couldn't be described as much more than 'modest' - and arched an eyebrow in return. "I thought Bards were meant to be more subtle than that. You can't exactly go 'round singing naughty songs."

"Of course you can. It just depends on the audience - and, really, have you heard some of the folk songs they sing in the country? Nothing subtle about them. We're still close enough to Haven that they don't have anything really raunchy here; you've got to get out in the middle of nowhere, where all they've got are shepherds and the like. Which I suppose you'll see soon enough, if you're going out on circuit for your internship."

"Oh, I'm not going on circuit," she was quick to explain. "I'm on a different sort of internship with my mentor. We're just-" Clara frowned. She wasn't sure how to describe what they were doing, mainly because she didn't really know herself. "My mentor is the Herald-Chronicler, and he wants me to have experience with the outside world, so he thought taking me off on a nice little trip in the dead of winter was the best way to do it."

"Well, better you than me." Jac looked sceptical about this, but didn't offer any criticism. "It's been wonderful talking to you, Clara, but I'd best start singing for my own supper soon. I'd love to talk to you after the performance, if you've time." He gave her another one of those heart-melting smiles, the sort that did funny things to Clara's insides, and she blushed a little.

"Maybe," she agreed. "I can't promise anything; I've been riding all day. But I'd like to." She wouldn't have minded doing more than talking, she thought, although she wasn't forward enough to say so. She knew the reputation the Heralds had for being - well - uninhibited, but she hadn't been at the Collegium long enough to acquire the same tendencies. In fact, she had never been with a man herself, though she hardly wasn't going to mention it to anyone! In her old life, something like that would have been improper (though she was aware that no few governesses were approached by their employers for the odd bit of clandestine bedchamber activity), and she hadn't met anyone at the Collegium who'd caught her interest (except she couldn't help but think about Ioannes, the intensity of his storm-grey eyes, the elegance of his long fingers, the passionate way he talked about things he was interested in). 

He rose from his chair and gave her a half-bow, then retreated to the makeshift stage that had been set up for him, bending his head over his lute as he tuned it. She had been right about his rear, she noted idly, smiling to herself with satisfaction as if she hadn't just been thinking of the Chronicler a moment ago. But, really, she doubted there was a woman in the room - and, in fact, the population of the taproom largely consisted of women, from the ones who were just old enough to start thinking of marriage to those who could have been her own mother - not thinking the same thing. Jac was a fine specimen of a man, and one that even a married woman could safely daydream about; a Bard would pass through for a few days and spice up their lives, sing to them but (hopefully) not woo them away from their husbands, and leave her with fond memories. Knowing the state of some marriages, they needed that sort of thing. 

And as for Clara - well, she wasn't attached to anyone, and wasn't likely to be anytime soon. Most Heralds didn't go in for long-term attachments. There were exceptions, of course, like Amelia and Rory, but by and large, Heralds were single. They sometimes enjoyed the company of others - hence their reputation - but didn't tend to marry. And, Clara admitted, there wasn't anything wrong with spending time with other people, but she didn't have the slightest idea how to go about initiating something like that. Flirting, she could do - she'd been flirting ever since she'd started attending parties as an eligible teenage girl - but anything more serious than that, and she was well out of her depth.

The Bard knew his audience, and he sang them a number of sappy romantic songs, interspersed with rollicking folk tunes to please the men in the room. Clara was amused to note that the former did include 'My Lady's Eyes', as well as a number of other old chestnuts that she was sure he loathed equally as much. The performance as a whole was immensely enjoyable, though; he had a fine mellow tenor, smooth and passionate, honed with the skill only a trained Bard could have.

"I'd like to play something a little different for you all," he said finally, after a long sip of the mug of cider he kept on a stool next to him. "This is for a very special woman who asked for something of my own composition, and I hope you'll approve of it. I haven't got a title for it just yet." He adjusted a few of the strings with quiet plucks, then, without further ado, launched into an instrumental piece. It was brilliant, but Clara wouldn't have expected anything less from a Bard; the song began slowly, with individual notes that reminded her of raindrops falling into a pond one by one, breaking the stillness with ripples. The notes came faster and faster, like the torrent of a breaking storm, his fingers dancing on the strings as he plucked, the tune that had started with the raindrops building into a melody and harmony - and then, just as quickly as it had begun, it receded, retreating back into the simple notes of the beginning, and from there, into silence.

The townspeople were a little confused by the song; the only instrumental pieces they were familiar with were dances, but they applauded nonetheless, and Clara knew that he had been using the Bardic Gift during his performance. The pure, raw energy and passion couldn't have come from anything else. Her own clapping was enthusiastic, and Jac favoured her with a softer smile, something more real than the ones he'd been giving her earlier. 

He bid the audience a good night, and the women started gathering in clusters to chat eagerly about the performance. Several of them crowded the stage, trying to chat with the Bard, and he gave each of them a bit of attention - and, Clara noticed with amusement, the odd flirt or two. It was interesting to watch; he clearly made each of them feel important, devoting his attention wholly to them, and his compliments seemed entirely genuine. It wasn't the sort of thing you would usually see from a man who flirted with so many women, one most people would probably call a rake. Even the plainer women seemed to be just as deserving of his attention.

Clara lingered over her own drink, waiting for him to finish with his flock of admirers, and her patience was finally rewarded when he came to her table, waving for a drink.

"Did you like it?" he asked, leaning forward intently, as if her opinion of his piece meant something to him, even though Clara didn't know the first thing about music.

"I thought it was brilliant," she replied honestly. "Though you're the first Bard I've ever heard play, so I can't say I've much to compare it to. But if that's the sort of sound you can get out of a lute, I'd absolutely love to hear you on other instruments." And, she had to admit, she could have listened to him sing for much, much longer than he'd performed. He had the sort of voice that made women swoon, and Clara wondered for a moment why he didn't have a noble patron. (Of course, maybe he'd had one, and maybe he'd got into trouble when his patron's wife had been a little too fond of him. It was the sort of thing that happened regularly with Bards.)

"When we're both in Haven," he promised. "I'll put on a private recital just for you." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "And if you're very good, you can have a different kind of show after."

"What if I'm not?" Clara tilted her head slightly, giving him the coquettish smile she'd practised at so many parties as a teenager. In truth, she knew she probably shouldn't encourage him, not when she didn't know what she would do if he kept propositioning her. This was the sort of thing that could only lead her into trouble - but it would, at least, be entertaining trouble. Or so she hoped, anyway.

"Even better." He lifted his tankard to her in a toast before taking a deep draught of his drink. "You ought to try the ale here, it's fantastic."

Clara had, by now, switched to water in her own mug; she didn't need anything else to contribute to the misery of a day spent riding. "Maybe on the way back to Haven." She grimaced at the thought of another moon of riding. "I'll have one to celebrate then. Do you think you'll still be around in a moon?"

"In Haven?" He shrugged. "I'm unassigned, at the moment. I go where the wind takes me, wherever inspiration might strike. Or wherever I can find beautiful women." Jac winked at her. "Of course, that might change once I get back to the Collegium, but I think it's likely I'll still be there when you return. Especially if they rope me into teaching this term." 

"I teach courses, too," Clara offered. "Like I said, I was a governess before I was Chosen, so they decided that I might do well with the younger Trainees - helping them with reading and history and the like. I tutor the ones who need extra help, as well."

"All that, and you still have time to be the Chronicler's apprentice?"

"I wouldn't say there's much work involved with that." Clara made a face. "He summons me at odd hours, poses strange questions to me - not much actual chronicling involved, I'm afraid. Maybe that bit comes later." She'd seen him writing, of course, but she'd never read any of his Chronicles - either the official ones or the auxiliary Chronicles that she'd learnt about. Instead, he would assign her older volumes to read and then never ask her anything about them. (Despite that, she still read them dutifully; the history of Valdemar was fascinating, and he always provided her with interesting accounts to read.) "Mostly it's just a lot of bickering with a daft old man."

"I suppose he knows what he's doing." Jac shrugged philosophically. "The regular Chronicles are dull as dust, I can tell you that - we've all had assignments at Bardic to go through them and try to find material to write songs about. So I hope for your sake that the Heraldic Chronicles are more interesting, or that you make them more interesting."

"Well, our Chronicles don't have to report things like the grain harvest," Clara pointed out. "Or trade, or the Guard patrols. So the history is sort of condensed, I suppose, to the bits that are relevant to Heralds. It's still not all interesting, even then, but it's more likely to be less boring than the kingdom's Chronicles." At least, that was how she saw it. She _had_ read bits of the other Chronicles, and the guard records, and records from both Healer and Bardic Collegia - and they were, by and large, just as boring as he'd described (although the Bards at least tried to make their more interesting, by virtue of being natural storytellers). 

"What about you, though?" she continued, changing the subject handily. She'd spent all this time talking about herself, and she was starting to feel as though she was monopolising the conversation. "Where are you from, and how did you become a Bard?"

"I'm actually from Rethwellan," he admitted, "though my family left when I was young. My father was a trader, and- well, my history's pretty bog standard." There was a way his eyes flickered to the side that made Clara think he wasn't telling the entire truth. Anyone who shut down that abruptly had to be hiding something, something she hoped he'd received Mindhealing for, whatever it was. A kneejerk reaction like that spoke, she thought, of long-repressed trauma - but surely Healers would have dealt with that during his training at the Collegium. "I was found by a Bard who tested me for the Gift, and she carted me off to the Collegium. I had years of training, so on and so forth, got my full Scarlets. I thought about looking for a patron, but I've never been able to find one to suit me, so here I am, just a roaming Bard. I've always had a touch of wanderlust, so it suits me well."

"I've always wanted to see the rest of Valdemar - just not in the dead of winter." Clara sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I mean, can you really blame me? This is miserable weather to travel in. I know that Heralds have to get used to living rough in any kind of weather, but you'd think that he would at least pick something easier for a spur of the moment trip. Like spring - spring is a great season. Flowers blooming, birds singing, no chance of getting frostbite."

"Spoken like someone who's never been out of Haven," he teased her. "Trust me, I've spent enough time on the road to know that there is no ideal season in which to travel. Cold in winter, all over mud in spring, hot in summer, soaked to the bone in fall - you can always find something to complain about, Clara. You're a Herald; unless it's an emergency, you're already travelling better than nearly anyone on the road, trust me. And if it is an emergency, then things are too important to worry about the weather or your rations or whether you're sleeping in a real bed - hell, there are times when Heralds have had to tie themselves to the saddle to sleep while riding. You might look back on this with fondness in another ten years."

"You're right, of course." Clara hated when other people delivered lectures to her, no matter how well-intentioned. The Chronicler did it quite regularly, though his lectures were a good deal grumpier and more sarcastic. "I'm just not used to any of this yet - I never thought that I'd be living the life of a Herald. When I was younger, I figured I'd get married and...raise a house full of children, I suppose." She wrinkled her nose; the prospect sounded dull and unappealing now. "And then I became a governess, and I didn't really know what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I wasn't marriage material any longer, but I wasn't a servant. I was just...there."

"And then you were Chosen."

She nodded her agreement. "At least Eirian rescued me from a life of having to teach children who didn't care about anything I said to them. I don't think I could have dealt with it much longer, honestly, except I couldn't see any other options open to me." It sounded bleak when she said it; she hadn't thought of it as being especially depressing when she'd been living it, but now that she looked back on it, she could see the signs as clearly as if they had been writ in stone. Clara shivered at the path her thoughts were taking, and helped herself to a deep swig of water to hide it. 

"I probably ought to head to bed, you know." Though she was something of a night owl back at the Collegium, she knew that she would have to keep a different schedule while travelling in order to take advantage of all the candlemarks of daylight - and there were precious few of them at this time of year. "I don't know what time Ioannes wants us to leave, but I expect it'll be as early as possible." Which was a pity, because she really was enjoying talking to Jac, and she wanted to get to know him better - but this probably wasn't the time or the place for it.

"Sure you couldn't do with a bedwarmer?" Clara suspected that he didn't expect her to say yes to that question; he was only offering because he felt obligated to flirt with her one last time.

"I appreciate the offer, but hopefully they've got a heated brick in my blankets already." Besides, her muscles were sore enough that she didn't even want to think about any other sort of strenuous activity. She was already going to be miserable enough tomorrow without taking anything else into account.

"Ah, well. Suppose I'll just have to go to bed alone." He sighed dramatically, putting on a disappointed face for Clara's benefit.

"Oh, yeah, such a struggle." She giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. "Like any one of those women wouldn't be willing to keep you warm all night. At least half of them would've torn off their underthings and done Gods know what right in front of everyone."

"And I'd get run out of town in the morning, if I didn't get run through with a pitchfork first. No, thank you, I like my body whole and without puncture wounds. But as for you, Lady Herald - we'll meet again, I'm sure of it." He leaned across the table and brushed surprisingly soft lips against her cheek. "Hopefully under better circumstances," he whispered in her ear. Clara shivered again, but this time it was pleasure coursing through her veins, not fear.

"I- I'm sure we will," she stammered, a blush rising in her cheeks. Clara was good at flirting, but gods, something about Jac made her feel flustered. Maybe it was because she wasn't used to men displaying such frank and open sexual interest in her, or practically coming straight out and propositioning her; she wondered how he would react if she told him she was still a virgin. If he pursued her with the same intensity when they met again, the topic would certainly come up.

But, thankfully, she had a couple moons to think about that - at the very least - and Jac had given her the opportunity to gracefully retreat. Clara rose from her chair, leaning in to peck him on the cheek, but she was surprised when he turned his face and caught her with a kiss on the lips instead. It was brief, but still filled with every hint of passion he had promised, and Clara's cheeks grew even redder. She broke the kiss off and fled up to her room in embarrassment.

 

After taking a few minutes to calm down from Jac's kiss, Clara tapped lightly on the connecting door. Not hearing any response, she cracked it open, peering in at Ioannes. He had settled into bed with a book, the wire and crystal lenses he used when reading perched on his nose.

"I hope you didn't fill your saddlebags with books," she said lightly. "I can't imagine Idris would thank you for doing something like that." Clara perched precariously on the edge of his bed, taking note of a tray that had barely been picked at. "You didn't eat much dinner. Are you sure you're feeling all right?" He looked just as tired and worn as he had earlier, and she wondered again if he was ill.

"Not in the mood for stew." He marked his place in the book with a scrap of parchment, closing it for a moment. "Don't worry, I'm fine. You won't get to head back to Haven just yet, I'm afraid. And I only brought a few books along. I _do_ know how to pack, Clara."

"Maybe you should have asked if they could fix you something else. I'm sure they've got a joint on, or some porridge, or-"

"Are you going to mother hen me all the way to Karse?" he demanded irritably. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse than questioning my decisions and acting like a petulant child when you don't get your way."

"I'm acting like a child?" Clara, of course, had completely forgotten everything Eirian had told her about being kind to him earlier. "You're the one who went and sulked in his room without eating dinner! If anyone's being childish and throwing a tantrum, it's you!" Her cheeks, previously red with embarrassment, were now flushed with anger, spots of red appearing high on her cheekbones. 

"You'll forgive me if I question why I'm being dragged to the Border and back for no apparent reason, since you told me that Heralds weren't meant to blindly follow orders," she continued sharply. "That's the entire point that you've been trying to hammer into my head, and now it's suddenly 'shut up and do what I tell you to, Clara'. Talk about sending mixed messages, yeah?"

"And did it occur to you that I can't tell you?" he hissed through clenched teeth, the volume of his voice suddenly dropping. "Certainly not in an inn, when you never know who might be listening at the doors? Sometimes you need to know whether or not you should question orders. You should know who to trust."

Clara wondered if he was being serious, or if he was just a paranoid old man. Privately, she gave either option even odds.

_:He's being serious, Clara,:_ Eirian offered, sounding apologetic. _:There's a reason for all of this, but he doesn't much like Mindspeaking with other people, and a sudden silence would sound suspicious if there are people eavesdropping.:_

"Fine," Clara huffed, repeating it in Mindspeech for Eirian's benefit. She _did_ trust Ioannes; she complained about him, and she wondered if she knew how hurtful his treatment of her could be sometimes, but he'd become something of a friend in her time at the Collegium, if a strange one. When he wasn't being grumpy, she enjoyed his company. He'd told her many things that the average Herald didn't know - that the average Herald would never know - trusting that she wouldn't go spreading it about the Collegium. So of course she trusted him in return. Every Herald trusted the others; it was a bond that meant that they could put their lives in each other's hands without fear. She wasn't sure she felt that yet for most of them, but she knew she did with him - otherwise, she wouldn't have gone travelling with him.

"How was the Bard's performance?" he asked mildly, pretending that they hadn't just been arguing. Clara had never been able to understand his talent for going from a fight to just a normal conversation in a matter of moments. "I heard the servants talking about it. Apparently he's been quite popular around here, even in a village that sees Bards regularly."

Clara found herself blushing yet again as she thought of Jac. "I can see why. He's quite handsome, and he uses that to his advantage. He enjoys flirting with women." She knew that he would see right through that and assume that the Bard had worked his wiles on her. "Though he told me that he wouldn't take any of them to his bed, for fear of being chased out of town."

"A wise Bard, then." His tone was dry, giving no sign of whether or not he'd worked out Clara's secret. Maybe he just didn't care - after all, he was very nearly old enough to be her father. Surely it didn't matter to him what she engaged in, as long as she didn't allow it to interfere with her duties as a Herald. "If you ever need information, Bards are nearly always the best people to ask. Very few people are as clued into their surroundings, and they're trained to gather information in the same way Heralds are. They have to know what the situation's like, be able to analyse a crowd before they perform - to gauge whether a certain song might be right or wrong to sing, to know the sort of mood their audience is in. Besides, they're naturally nosy, every last one of them. Nearly as bad as Companions, when it comes down to it. Worse, because they can gossip with _everyone_ if they choose to, or compose a song to get the news out. Never anger a Bard, Clara; there are tales of nobles who did just that and found themselves the butt of an entire kingdom's joke."

"I'd never heard a proper Bard before," Clara admitted with a shrug. "None of the gatherings I went to when I was young ever had one."

"Oh, I doubt he used the Gift much in a performance like this." He waved a hand at their surroundings. "A touch or two, perhaps. Part of being a Master Bard is knowing when to use the Gift and when to simply perform. Most performances you hear from a Bard are simply as skilled as you might hear from a very good minstrel or troubadour."

"He performed a composition of his own at the very end. I think he used the Gift then." Clara frowned slightly; she didn't know if she ought to be able to tell when someone was using the Bardic Gift. Her own Gift was largely with Mindspeech and Thoughtsensing, but she could feel _something_ when another Herald was using a Gift around her; she had yet to find out whether or not the same applied to Bards and Healers.

"To help its reception, I expect. Bards are incredibly vain." Clara held her tongue at that; if he didn't know how vain she was, she wasn't going to mention it now. (She often had the distinct feeling that he knew a lot more about her than he let on.) "I used to be something of a gittern player myself, you know. Never up to Bardic standards, and I certainly can't sing. But I could strum well enough, though I imagine I'm out of practise now. It was a good way to pass the time on circuit."

Try as she might, Clara couldn't imagine a younger version of him riding on circuit. She knew that he must have - that he certainly had to have injured his leg somehow, though he still wouldn't say what had happened - but he seemed like the sort of person who had simply skipped most of the ageing process and sprung into being fully-grown, with a head of silver hair and a face already lined with age. The thought of him as a gangly teenager, all legs and arms, or even a younger adult with curly hair and darker (but still bushy) eyebrows seemed entirely preposterous.

"How did you become Chronicler?" she asked, idly picking at a loose string on the coverlet. "Did you have to go through this sort of thing, or am I just lucky?"

"Oh, I was a full Herald by the time I became Chronicler-Second. I was well-travelled enough that I didn't need the sort of experience you're gaining now - so, in answer to your question, you're just lucky." His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Although I expect you don't feel that way right now."

"Who wouldn't love to trek down to the Karsite border in the dead of winter?" Clara retorted. "Especially wearing a Herald's uniform. It's the best Midwinter gift anyone could ask for." Although she didn't think they were likely to cross into Karse itself, she still would have preferred to stay well clear of the border and the bandits Karse encouraged to raid across into Valdemar. "I just ought to be grateful I'm not in proper Whites. At least Greys won't stand out quite as much." And with snow cover, even Whites wouldn't be as visible as they could be in summer, a clear target against the green grass of the hills. Of course, there was still the problem of riding a very large, very white horse.

"That's the spirit." Despite their bleak conversation, he seemed to cheer up a little, and there was a lively light twinkling in those grey eyes. "Always nice to see you bringing cheer to things, Clara. It'll be great when you start writing your own Chronicles."

"Er. When am I going to start, anyway? I don't mean to rush things, but I always figured that being the Herald-Chronicler's apprentice would involve more, you know, actual writing." And less haring off across the kingdom with only a few candlemarks' notice. 

"In time, in time." He waved her question off. "You need more experience first, then you can start writing. And we've got plenty of time - you aren't even a full Herald yet, and I'm not planning on going anywhere for a long while. Besides, it's not a job that requires much training - theoretically, any literate person could do it."

And realistically, Clara knew that not any literate person could. She'd read enough of the Chronicles by now to know that. It took a trained eye, the experience of a Herald, and someone who knew enough to sort the wheat from the chaff, as it were. The Chronicles themselves required someone who could relate an event without allowing their bias to get in the way, but a Herald's auxiliary Chronicles (which were often more useful than the official ones) allowed for a certain amount of opinion in the narrative. One needed to take both together to form a true picture of what had happened in the past.

What he was teaching her was the sort of thing not anyone could learn - it was like an enhanced version of the ethics class every Trainee at the Collegium was required to take, seen from a greyer point of view than the one officially espoused by the Heralds. It was accompanied by a great deal of history, the unvarnished history that not many ever learned, so that she would know what to write when what she was writing would become the history future generations would study. Truth be told, she still wasn't quite sure why he had chosen her - why not someone who had been a Trainee from a young age, who already had experience in Whites? - but she was glad he had.


	6. Chapter 6

Ten days later, they neared the hilly country that formed Valdemar's border with Karse. Though they had been lucky with weather so far, Clara suspected their luck was about to run out. The ground already had a couple inches of snow, but nothing that would impede travel, and certainly not for a pair of Companions. 

Clara wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible; Ioannes still looked exhausted, and his condition had only deteriorated since the first day. She rather thought he was only clinging to Idris from sheer force of will. She had dragged a Healer to him one night, when they had stayed at a Guard barracks for the night, but the Healer had said that there was nothing wrong with him other than overwork. He wasn't coming down with anything, and he insisted that they had a mission that couldn't be delayed, so they pressed on. At least they had stayed in inns or at guard posts every night; Clara didn't want to think about what he would have been like if they'd had to stay at Waystations.

She glanced over her shoulder at the building line of storm clouds. There was a fierce wind behind them, pushing them closer, biting into the riders' thick winter clothes. Clara didn't know if there was a village out here, and she didn't care. They needed to find cover - any sort of cover - soon.

_:Idris says there's a Waystation only a couple candlemarks' ride from here. If we pick up our speed, we can make it in one.:_

Clara eyed the Chronicler sceptically. _:Do you think he'll stay on if she goes any faster?:_

_:He's a trained Herald, Clara. He'll cling to Idris till death takes him, and maybe even after that.:_

She wasn't so sure, but she wasn't going to insult him by suggesting that he ought to be tied to the saddle, either. (Besides, she didn't think they had rope.) As Eirian began to move faster, though, Clara started wondering if _she_ ought to be tied to the saddle. The gallop was as smooth as any such gait could be, but she still wasn't entirely confident in her own skills as a rider. Her gloved hands clenched the reins tightly; she suspected that they were frozen in place, much like her legs clamped around Eirian's barrel. She couldn't feel most of her extremities anymore, and when her eyes watered, the moisture froze in her lashes. She was colder than she had ever been in her life.

Halfway through the ride, snowflakes began to fall - not the lazy drifting she had seen earlier in their trip, but whipping at her in the howling wind, stinging her numbed face. She could barely see Eirian's head in front of her, but the two Companions kept grimly on. Just as she thought she could take no more, the two of them staggered to a halt outside a Waystation. Clara used some words that she usually tried to pretend she didn't even know; a Waystation was the very last thing she wanted in weather like this. It would be cold, and gods knew how long the place would take to heat in weather like this. She eyed the Companions for a moment, then the lean-to that had been made for them.

"Got to take them inside!" Ioannes yelled above the howling wind. Indeed, the door _was_ large enough to fit a Companion, and Clara didn't think it would be wise to leave them out in weather like this. She dismounted, staggering on legs she couldn't even feel, urging Eirian in before her. Though she wanted nothing more than to create a nest she could curl up in and sleep for a week, she knew she had to take care of the Companions, and her mentor wasn't fit to do so. She fixed him with a stern glare as he started to head back outside, and he moved for the fireplace instead, presumably to start a fire.

Next time I leave Haven, she thought, it's going to be with a muscle-bound Herald, one who doesn't mind hauling things. She was small, but the Weaponsmaster had been working with her upper body, trying to increase her strength and endurance. Though the bales of hay in the lean-to were heavy and unwieldy, she could just barely lift them, one by one, and heave them through the rising snow into the Waystation. Next came the firewood stocked outside in bundles, and Clara nearly wanted to cry, but she knew it had to be done to keep them from freezing to death. 

She only stopped when she realised she couldn't remember how long she'd been outside. Her sides were heaving like a winded Companion's, and she stood for a moment in the snow, blinking dazedly.

_:Clara!:_ Eirian's clarion Mindcall snapped her out of it. _:Get inside now! I'm not going to have you lose your fingers and toes working yourself to death for the rest of us. If we need more wood, you can get it later.:_

She stumbled back into the shelter of the Waystation, only a little warmer than it was outside, but blessedly calm. There was a fire crackling in the hearth, although it hadn't had much of a chance to warm the place yet, and two large nests of hay for the Companions. The two box-beds held hay of their own, bedrolls spread over the top, and Clara thought that she had never seen anything quite so inviting in her life. She started to stagger over to it, but was stopped by a pointed cough.

"Outer layers off," Ioannes said. "And don't think you're going to be able to sleep. You've got to stay awake until you warm up." The other Herald was seated on a stool in front of the fire, a rough-fired clay mug in his hands as he waited for the battered kettle over the fire to boil. It was the most domestic she'd ever seen him look, and Clara was struck by the sudden urge to laugh. Instead, she stripped the gloves from her hands, letting them fall to the floor. Numb fingers fumbled at the ties of her cloak; the length of cloth was heavy with snow. Now that she took a better look at herself, her uniform was more white than grey, thoroughly coated from the blizzard outside.

"'m cold," she complained thickly through chattering teeth.

"Of course you are," he huffed, rising from his seat to help her. He tugged the hem of her outermost tunic up; Clara somehow managed to lift her arms obediently, feeling as stiff as a giant doll. Trousers came next, and she was thankful that it was cold enough that they had both been wearing as many layers as possible. Unbidden, a thought came to mind of those capable hands peeling more of her clothing off, and she ducked her head to hide her sudden blush. Despite their age difference, Clara had to admit that she found him handsome. It wasn't the sort of classical beauty that most people first noticed, but a certain stark elegance. And, really, she could have been married to someone even older and forced to bed him for the sake of heirs; she didn't think age mattered that much.

He didn't notice her blush; he was more preoccupied with pushing the other stool over and making her sit down on it. "Boots," was all he said, and it took her a moment to work out that he meant for her to lift her feet up. She did as ordered, then held her hands up before the fire, feeling the heat sink back into flesh and bone. He tugged at the knots of sodden laces, wrestling with the heavy leather and thick woollen socks. Clara's toes looked shrunken and white in the flickering firelight, and he took her feet between his hands and chafed them until feeling began to return. "Another half-candlemark and you would have lost your toes. Didn't they teach you anything at the Collegium?"

"Had to make sure you were safe," she mumbled. Besides, she hadn't actually learnt much about cold-weather survival yet; she was fairly certain they were due to cover it in the upcoming term. What she knew was entirely what she had pieced together in her reading of the Chronicles; they had to provide for the Companions and make sure they had enough firewood in the Waystation to keep from having to go outside in a storm like this.

"Daft," he grumbled, turning to tend to the teakettle. Steam was coming out of the spout, and he took it off the fire, adding the tea to steep. 

_:He means thank you.:_ Clara turned to look at Idris in surprise. She'd almost thought she'd imagined the other Companion speaking to her before; from what she'd learnt at the Collegium, Companions never spoke to anyone other than their Chosen. Most Heralds didn't think it was possible, but it appeared from time to time - very rarely - in the auxiliary Chronicles. The Companion's mindvoice was the same as it had been before, barely more than a whisper, but it felt strong and sure nonetheless. 

Clara had never really been sure what Idris thought about her - certainly her mentor never ventured his Companion's opinion on anything, and she had just assumed that she was a very private Companion. There had to be some that were, just as Eirian was garrulous and felt free to share his thoughts on just about everything, as well as intruding on Clara's thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder at the other Companion, arching an eyebrow, but Idris just regarded her complacently with sapphire eyes, acting as if she hadn't spoken at all.

It didn't matter, she decided as he shoved a mug of tea into her hands. She hadn't done it for her, she'd done it because she knew he was a stubborn old man who, bad leg or no, would have insisted on hauling wood and hay in the middle of a blizzard without any thought for his health.

Clara's own thoughts were fuzzy and tired, a bit muddled, and she found herself leaning against his shoulder. They only had stools, and she was tired of supporting her own weight. She wanted something to rest against, and he was the only thing available.

"Stay awake." He nudged her, peering owlishly down at her head, but didn't bother to move her.

"'m awake," she muttered, automatically lifting the cup of tea to take a drink. Her eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but she still had them open a crack. "How long d'you think we'll be here?" Her speech was slurred, but she didn't care enough to make the effort to speak properly right now.

"Depends on how much snow we get, but I don't think it'll be less than a week. This isn't the sort of storm that just blows itself out overnight, I'm afraid. We'll have snow and wind for two or three days, and then we'll have to wait till we can actually get out again." He scowled. Clara still didn't know what their mission was, but she suspected it was time-sensitive, and that this had just put a kink in their plans. "This is a miserable time of year to do anything, but sometimes it just can't be helped, I suppose." He gave her a wry smile. "I should know; I was born on Midwinter. I'm not certain my mother ever forgave me - or, for that matter, my father, since he was the one who had to go out and fetch the midwife."

There was something fitting about being born at the end of the year, the longest night, when all of Valdemar let their flames die before kindling them for the new year. It was a symbol of hope and rebirth, of the turning of the seasons and the potential for new life. Clara's own birthday had been nearly a moon ago; she hadn't celebrated or mentioned it to anyone. She hadn't seen the need to make a fuss about it - she certainly hadn't known _his_ birthing day till he'd mentioned it. (She still hadn't bought him a Midwinter gift yet, largely because she wasn't sure if it was appropriate. Now she wondered if she needed to purchase something as a present for his birthing day as well. Maybe a book; he seemed like the sort who would be most likely to appreciate a book.)

The tea seemed to invigorate her a bit, the steaming hot liquid warming her from the inside, the heat pooling in her stomach. As the silence lengthened, Clara listened to the howling of the winds whipping around the sturdily built Waystation. She wondered if they were close enough to the border to tempt the demons everyone said Karsite priests summoned - but surely the Heralds wouldn't have built a Waystation anywhere potentially unsafe. They were meant to be sanctuaries, a place of refuge in an emergency just like this one.

"The demons don't usually venture over the border."

Clara frowned. She hadn't actually said that, and-

"Your shields are slipping."

Oh, lovely, his Gift was Thoughtsensing as well. Brilliant. Clara wondered how long she'd been broadcasting as she hastily erected her shields, grounding and centering with no small amount of difficulty. No Herald would eavesdrop on another by invading their mind, but if she'd been practically shouting - well, no wonder he'd overheard her. She couldn't blame him for that, only herself. She let out a small sigh of relief as her shields slipped back into place, and she swore she felt him mirror it, leaning against him as she was.

_:I was about to warn you,:_ Eirian offered, chagrin evident in his voice. _:And I was going to reinforce them if you couldn't do it yourself. You're exhausted; I don't know how long your shields are going to hold.:_

_:This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?:_ Clara rolled her eyes. She'd never bothered to ask what his Gift was before, although she probably should have; knowing the reluctance he usually displayed when she asked personal questions, she'd doubted he would volunteer the information willingly.

_:You should have figured out his Gifts on his own.:_ That was Idris again, dry as the hay she was resting on. _:If you had half the sense of a yearling colt-:_

_:What do you mean?:_ Clara felt her irritation rise quickly. She'd always been one to get annoyed easily when she was tired, and it didn't help that she was being told off by some know-it-all horse.

_:He's an Empath, you idiot.:_ Her voice was no longer wispy and ethereal; instead, it held a distinct feeling of irritation, overlaid with a sense of protectiveness for her Chosen.

Empathy was one of the rarest gifts found in Heralds, and Clara barely knew anything about it; she wasn't sure why Idris had expected her to work it out on her own. It appeared more often in those with the Healing Gift, she knew, but it was still incredibly rare, and difficult to control. It all added up with that bit of information - why he was so withdrawn, why he'd wanted to stay in Waystations instead of inns, why he seemed to keep people at arm's length. 

"What's she telling you now?" He sighed, and Clara felt the exhale of breath as his shoulders fell. He was silent, probably Mindspeaking Idris himself; his muscles tensed beneath Clara's head, though he didn't pull away. "Ah. That."

"I'm sorry," she found herself apologising, "I didn't-"

"Why would you have known? I don't go 'round telling people about it. It's irrelevant, as far as I'm concerned. I had better control over it in the past, but I'm afraid I've been taking the easy way out for years now." There was a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "And now I'm paying the price, aren't I? I've got a Trainee dragging me back into the thick of things, and intrigues heating up, and I can't stay in my nice safe corner of the palace any longer. I shouldn't have done it in the first place. But if we all spent our time dwelling on our regrets, we wouldn't have the opportunity to make amends for our mistakes, would we?"

"Intrigues?" Clara tilted her head up to look at him, latching onto a single word without paying much attention to everything else he'd said.

"Politics with Karse - isn't that always what it is? There's an agent trying to make his way out of the country. Not a Herald; we learnt a long time ago that you can't send Heralds into Karse. They get found out, and then-"

And then the Fires of Cleansing. Clara knew that much, had read it in the Chronicles. Heralds were, according to the Sunpriests, demon-riders; accordingly, they were burnt to death - cleansed by the flames of Vkandis. Which meant that any intelligence had to be gathered by mundane agents.

"What has all this got to do with you?" 

"I'm the Queen's spymaster, among other things. Oh, don't look so surprised. You don't have to go out to get information - though I used to when I was younger. My shields were strong enough that I could prowl in the darkest corners of Haven. These days, I'm more like a spider sitting in its web."

Clara hid a smile at the mental image that popped into her mind, a gangly spider with its legs spread out across its web - a spider that sported prominent grey eyebrows. "And when something goes wrong-"

"Then I've got to take care of it myself, if nobody else can be spared. You're just an excuse, a disguise, an eccentric old Herald taking his Trainee out for a nice winter jaunt."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically. She wasn't sure how much she liked being reduced to nothing but a cover story. Clara also thought that it was overly paranoid of him - what were the odds of Karse having agents who would even find out about the movements of a single Herald, and connecting them with someone trying to leave the country? But he'd been at this longer than she had, and she figured he probably knew what he was doing.

"Can I help?" Clara asked eagerly. She rather fancied the idea of infiltrating - well, she didn't know what she would be infiltrating, but it sounded exciting. Maybe not the slums of Haven, but surely there were other places to gather information within Valdemar's borders.

"You might get your fill of helping soon enough," he pointed out. "If our agent is pursued across the border, then we'll have to do what we can to deter his followers. Have you been practising your archery?"

"Not on horseback." She could hit the target most of the time now, but she had no pretensions of how well she would do with a moving target - a real person - and she'd never tried to shoot from Eirian's back before. There was a chance she could do better with a shortsword, but only on foot; the weapon was too short to be of any use while mounted.

"Well, if we're lucky, it won't come to that. I only know that he requires urgent extraction, not why, or if he's being pursued. Getting messages out of Karse with any speed is...difficult, especially if they're lengthy." Clara got the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling her, but she wasn't going to push it; he was already revealing more than he had in weeks, and it no doubt made him feel vulnerable and exposed. "Once we're back in Haven, I'll see if I can ease you into some undercover work. It's always tricky with Heralds, especially if we develop any sort of a reputation. I might be able to slip you into some of the young nobles' parties, work you in as a provincial sort from out in the country, too poor to have been introduced at Court when you were still eligible."

"Hey!" Clara protested. She didn't want to be a poor noble, or one considered too old for any sort of matchmaking - though, realistically, she knew that it was better that way, more likely that nobody would pay her any mind when she eavesdropped on their conversations. It still felt awfully insulting to her, and she kind of liked the idea of attending fancy parties in beautiful dresses, not the castoffs that a poor country noble was sure to wear.

He rolled his eyes at her vanity. "You can have recently come into some money. We have to have _some_ excuse for you to be in Haven now, you know. If the fortune is large enough, you could probably even find a husband at your advanced age."

"Advanced age," she grumbled under her breath. "That's the goose telling the swan it's got a long neck." At least she felt more awake now, less likely to drift off to sleep. Idris' news had seen to that - and she suspected now that the Companion didn't like her, or that she was possibly even jealous that after all these years, someone was finally getting close to her Chosen. Oh, she'd been friendly enough at first, but that was when Clara had just met the both of them. It was entirely possible that her opinion had changed.

_:You're being ridiculous,:_ Eirian told her. 

_:Of course you'd say that.:_ Eirian was, after all, quite fond of Idris, although the two hadn't pursued any of their usual activities in the time they'd been travelling - probably because they'd been shut up in stables at night. 

_:Now who's being the paranoid one? She's just worried about Ioannes, that's all. This journey's taken a lot out of him, and he's not as young as he used to be. She's not as grumpy as he is, but she can have her moments. Besides, I wouldn't be spending time with her if she didn't like you. You're my Chosen, after all.:_

He had a point with that last, she figured. The bond between Herald and Companion was like a lifebond, or so she'd been told; it was the most important bond in most Heralds' lives (unless they actually had a lifebond, and even then, it was debatable as to which was more important). His loyalty to her was absolute, or the next thing to it. It was why most Heralds didn't marry - not many people could understand that a Herald's Companion was more important to them than a spouse could be, unless that person also happened to be a Herald.

"Will you feel better after we stay here a few days?" she asked, sitting up properly once more. "I wouldn't have insisted on staying at inns if I'd known." Although she hadn't made a point of it after the first night; he'd simply stopped at an inn whenever they arrived at a village near the end of the day, without asking her what she wanted to do. Today had been the first day they hadn't been near a village at all.

"Don't coddle me, Clara." His voice was almost a growl, and she wondered if she'd just poked the proverbial bear with a stick. "It's fine. There's no need for you to worry about anything."

She wasn't sure she believed that, but given his tone, she didn't want to press the issue. She just worried about broadcasting her emotions - unlike Thoughtsensing, an Empath couldn't be blocked. Shields could mute some of it, but not completely, and she wondered if even her emotions were rubbing against nerves that had long since been grated raw.

"There aren't any others in the Circle, are there?" If there were, he could get help once they were in Haven again.

"No, nor amongst the Healers." His jaw tightened. "I told you, don't worry about it."

Which was easier said than done. Clara was a natural worrier, and telling her not to only made the problem worse - like trying not to scratch an itch or wiggle a loose tooth. And snowed in as they were, she wasn't likely to have anything to do but fret over the problem his Empathy presented. All she could do was wait.


End file.
